PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Clothed in rags

He ‘presents disrepair

So we spit in his face

While he drowns in despair



He’s the trash on the street

Floating…adrift

But it’s where he belongs

And he never will shift



No-one knows where he came from

He just appeared and remained

This wizened, old squatter

Who possesses no name



From his home on the lawn

He sees all that goes on

Not a thing does he miss

Not a smile goes dismissed



There’s a blind-eye he turns

To society’s scorn

It hurts

But it’s really best to move on



It’s not a pawn’s place to frown or to mourn